Secret Agents
by GoddessOfTechnology
Summary: A modern AU where the Inseparables are secret agents. D'Art is an ex-assassin with an unhealthy obsession for computers, Aramis is a sniper, Porthos is a former thief and bomb technician, and Athos is a rich dude with a gun. This is basically just a compilation of various random one-shots.
1. Problems

**A/N: So...now I'm writing random one-shots for a Modern AU. Yay.**

 **These won't be in any particular order, because reasons.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's "The Musketeers" in any shape or form.**

* * *

D'Artagnan is panicking.

There are several things that are causing his panic. The first is that photo of a woman on his laptop screen, which is staring accusingly at him from its pace on his cluttered, messy, and dirty desk. It's a face he knows well, a pretty face which he knows from bitter experience to be hiding a diseased, almost psychopathic personality. It's a face he would have been perfectly content never to see again for the rest of his life.

The second thing is the name written next to the picture; or rather, several names. Judging by the fairly detailed file which accompanies the picture, the woman in the photo has several different aliases. The first one is one d'Artagnan is all too familiar with: Milady de Winter. The second and more troubling name is Anne de la Fère.

And that, in turn, leads to the third thing, which is that Athos is going to kill him in the very near future.

The ex-assassin stares at the laptop screen some more, willing it to change, willing this nightmare to be over before it's even begun. When it inevitably doesn't, he stands up with a snarl and begins pacing frantically around his small apartment. Panic is bubbling in his chest like boiling soup and he feels like he's about to fall apart with the force of his shaking.

Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm. Think it through. There had to be a way out of this somehow.

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves, he darts into his kitchen, already putting himself through the motions of preparing tea, that heavenly liquid that has been his faithful friend so many times. The familiar actions help to calm him a little, and by the time a mug of chamomile tea is steaming on the counter-top, he already feels a little bit better.

Not that he's stopped panicking yet, but at least he's no longer considering throwing himself out the nearest window. That's always a plus in his book, especially considering that he lives on the sixth floor.

He wraps his shaking hands around the mug and sips from it, ignoring the way that it scorches his tongue and throat as he leans against the counter. It takes the consuming of about three-quarters of the mug before he feels ready to think about what he's just discovered.

Milady de Winter.

Anne de la Fère.

The first is the name of the woman who blackmailed him into becoming her pet hired assassin, going so far as to threaten him with the death of his fiancée so that he'd remain under her control. The second is the name of the woman who cheated on Athos and killed his brother. Both refer to the same woman, which means that for seven years, d'Artagnan worked for Athos' ex-wife. And that, in turn, means that Athos is probably going to kill him.

D'Artagnan nervously sips at his tea, and considers what he should do.

It takes thirty seconds before he comes to the conclusion that Athos is going to find out somehow anyway, so really, jumping out of a window is currently his best option.

He gulps down the last of his tea and slams the mug down on the counter, before raking his fingers through his hair almost angrily. Really, he was being ridiculous. Milady _forced_ him to work for her. If he hadn't chosen to do as she asked, Constance would have _died._ _He's_ the victim here, he and Constance and all the people who had fallen on the wrong end of his pistol.

But a part of him, the bruised, broken, paranoid part that continues to fear that his new-found 'friends' might turn against him at any second, the part that was trained to see danger in every corner, fears that Athos will not feel the same way. That the older man will blame d'Artagnan, will hate him for working with his murderous, adulterous ex-wife.

Being hated by Athos...it would destroy him. Athos is the closest thing d'Artagnan has had to a father since the untimely death of Alexandre d'Artagnan. He's d'Artagnan's rock and savior, having given the young man a direction and purpose after the ex-assassin was snatched from Milady's grasp. He's d'Artagnan's mentor and brother and father all wrapped up in one.

D'Artagnan can't lose a father again, he _can't._

He _won't._

Athos will find out sometime, though. He always does. Hell, all it took on d'Art's part to find out this stupidity is a brief glance through the Musketeer records. He's surprised Athos hasn't found out already.

...He needs to talk to someone. Someone who's familiar with both Athos' and d'Art's backstories, but who can be trusted to keep a secret.

Briefly, he considers Porthos, but the man can't keep a secret to save his life, believing fully in things like 'absolute trust' and 'no secrets between brothers' and a load of other shit which at any other time would sound fabulous but which is currently rather counterproductive for d'Artagnan's continued survival. Which leaves Aramis, resident seducer and 'that-guy-with-the-stupidly-smug-smile-that-just-begs-to-be-hit-with-a-brick'. Oh joy.

Already mentally groaning, d'Art fishes out his mobile from the pocket of the brown blazer he always wears and dials Aramis' number. It rings twice before the marksman picks up, his insufferably husky voice echoing over the line. "Hello?"

D'Artagnan crosses the fingers of the hand not currently holding the phone to his ear. "'Mis?"

"Well hell- _o_ there, gorgeous!" Dammit, d'Art can practically _hear_ the man's stupid smile. "How are you today?"

"First of all, don't call me 'gorgeous' ever again or I'll shoot you in the knee."

Aramis audibly pouts. "You're no fun, d'Artagnan."

"I'm an assassin, I'm not exactly in the business of being fun."

"Correction; you're an _ex_ -assassin."

"...Whatever. I'm still a Musketeer. I still shoot people for a living."

"Ah, but you don't shoot them _fatally,_ my little Gascon friend. Or at least, you try not to. I don't think you try to, at any rate. Do you try to?"

A sigh. "Aramis."

"Right. Sorry. What is it you wanted to talk about?"

D'Artagnan stared at the opposite wall contemplatively. "Something serious. Can you come to my apartment for a bit? I need your help."

He half-expects the Spaniard to make some kind of raunchy quip, but to his surprise, Aramis replies with all of the lighthearted humor drained out of his voice, his tone business-like and completely without laughter. "Of course, d'Art. Meet you in five?"

"Sure."

Aramis terminates the call before d'Artagnan is even able to take the phone away from his ear. D'Artagnan stares at the phone for a long moment before tossing it onto the counter-top and wondering whether he made a good decision or an awful, terrible, monumentally catastrophic one.

Well, if it turns out to be the latter, where there's a window there's always a way.

* * *

 **A/N: I swear to God I'm normally a better writer than this. But this fandom is hard for me to write for for some reason.**

 **Anyway, au revoir, and sorry for inflicting this terrible story on y'all.**


	2. November

**A/N: This is me experimenting with a new writing style and sucking at it. This is also me writing angst and sucking at it. You have been warned.**

 **Also, a few people were wondering whether the previous oneshot ("Problems") will be continued. Imma have to say that I don't know. I generally suck at writing continuations, and as for turning it into a full-fledged story...well, that's complicated. I'm better at writing one-shots and pointless slices of life than a multi-chapter fic. But I'll try, at least.**

 **Oh! One last thing: I'm looking for a betareader to edit my Musketeers fics. If anyone is masochistic enough to want to wade through my pointless, rambly stories and attempt to extract some modicum of sense and coherency from them, please PM me.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's "The Musketeers" in any shape or form.**

* * *

 _"Can I clear my conscience,_  
 _If I'm different from the rest,_  
 _ _Do I have to run and hide? (Oh oh oh oh),__

 _I never said that I want this,_  
 _This burden came to me,_  
 _And it's made it's home inside (Oh oh oh oh)_

 _If I told you what I was,_  
 _Would you turn your back on me?_  
 _And if I seem dangerous,_  
 _Would you be scared?_  
 _I get the feeling just because,_  
 _Everything I touch isn't dark enough_  
 _If this problem lies in me_

 _I'm only a man with a candle to guide me_ ,  
 _I'm taking a stand to escape what's inside me._  
 _A monster, a monster,_  
 _I've turned into a monster,_  
 _A monster, a monster,_  
 _And it keeps getting stronger."-_ from "Monster" by Imagine Dragons

* * *

D'Artagnan hates this time of year.

It is mid-November, when the oranges and yellows and reds of autumn slowly fade into the bleak grayness that lies somewhere between autumn and winter, and he hates it. At any other time of the year, be it warm springs or stifling summers or cool autumns or freezing winters, he is composed, years of training in the art of killing making him dispassionate and poised and calm.

( _Too calm,_ Aramis always says, and Porthos does too. He's heard their borderline ridiculous theories, about how he's 'suppressing his emotions' and all sorts of other shit, and he would laugh if it wasn't for the fact that he's starting to believe they might be right, because it _can't_ be normal to just feel _nothing_ all the time, can it? It can't be normal to just feel a gaping hole where _d'Artagnan_ ought to be.)

At this time of the year, though...all that self-assuredness falls away, to be replaced by a sort of pathetic lethargy that is too dull for the sharp edge of grief and too harsh for mere boredom. At this time of the year, he forgets about his purpose, his meaning, his job. He even forgets about his three friends, about his beautiful fiancée currently hiding safely in Gascony. He forgets about everything that means anything to him, and this forgetfulness saps him of all energy, leaving him a starved husk.

(And isn't that pathetic, to lie around staring at the ceiling when he should be working for the good of France and for the wellbeing of his friends? He should be out there, joking with his friends as he carries out his work. He should be an actual human being for once. He shouldn't be lazing around here when there were people needing his help, God, how fucking _weak_ could he possibly be-)

He finds it difficult to live in these times. Everything reminds him too much of past pains, bringing back terrible memories that he tried so hard to bury forever. At this time of year, he can't close his eyes in peace without his mind conjuring ghastly images, taunting him with his past mistakes.

(His father, bleeding to death in his arms, bloodstained lips silently forming a word he can't even begin to hope to make out; Constance, shivering in terror as the thrice-cursed Milady held a knife to her throat; the first man he killed, blood sprayed over the floor, his gray eyes glassy; the second man he killed, choking to death from the poison he imbibed, lips tinged blue; the third, fourth, fifth, twentieth person he murdered, until their faces and their voices blend into a mass of blood and screams and he can no longer tell them apart-)

Before long, his lethargy turns to sorrow, to fear, to self-hatred. He repeats these moments in his mind, over and over and over again until he feels like he will go mad with the pain of it all. He picks apart his past, analyzing how things could have been different, how he could have done better, how this whole mess could have been avoided. He tortures himself with 'what-ifs' until his surroundings become blurry with tears.

(If only he'd been stronger, smarter, braver...If only he'd made a certain decision differently...If only he'd _thought_ for once instead of doing things on impulse...If only, if only, if only… _[and over and over again he repeats those words in his mind until they form a sharp, staccato beat, like nails being beaten into his skull by hammers]_ )

* * *

It's not long before he forgets to go to work. He spends half the day of lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, before he remembers that it is a weekday, and that he's supposed to be at the Garrison.

Somehow, the thought doesn't worry him as much as it should.

(Because how can he worry about lost salaries and disappointed coworkers and potentially being fired when his hands are coated to the elbows in innocent blood? How can he allow himself to think of such mundane, pointless, unimportant things when he's made so many mistakes, killed so many people, ripped so many families apart?)

Still, he manages to pull himself together for a little while, functioning long enough to text some lame excuse to Tréville, his boss. It's far from convincing, being the stereotypical "I'm sick" excuse, which would work except two months ago he showed up to work with a raging fever and had to be bullied by Aramis before he could be convinced to go on sick leave.

(And how strange it is, that a mere two months ago he couldn't be kept away from his work if you chained him to a wall, but now even the mere thought of going to the Garrison makes his insides twist like a bundle of writhing snakes. It's unusual and even a little concerning, and briefly he considers asking his friends, his brothers for help, but he can't tear them away from their jobs just because he's a pathetic shitshow of a human being. No, that would be selfish, and he can't be selfish again, not after his selfishness killed so many people)

Contrary to what he expects, though, Tréville buys it, or at least accepts it. The man gives him a curt "get well soon" and requests no further details, asks no further questions.

D'Artagnan doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

* * *

It happens again, two weeks later. He's tried so hard to go back to work, to function normally, but every day it grew harder and harder, until one day he simply can't muster the energy to get off the cheap leather couch in the living room and drag his (miserable, pathetic, weak) ass to work.

(And dammit, he should be over this by now, his father died years ago, he's already processed the grief. But no matter how many times he tells himself this, he knows deep down that it's about more than his father. It's about Milady and Constance and years after years of being forced to kill, of being conditioned into a human killing machine, of being broken and rebuilt over and over again until he no longer knows who he is anymore.)

* * *

It takes five days in a row of not showing up to work before Athos, Porthos, and Aramis knock at his door and demand why he's disappeared, why he's not at work, why he hasn't been answering any of their texts and calls.

Then they take one look at his face, at the dark circles under his eyes and his unusually pale face and the pinkness in his eyes and his overall haggard state, and they go insane.

Porthos gently wraps him in some blankets that he's procured from seemingly nowhere, and seats him in an armchair. Athos fusses and wrings his hands nervously while being generally useless. Aramis darts into the kitchen to make him a cup of tea, and for once in his life utterly neglects to make fun of d'Artagnan for the ridiculously large collection of teas he has stored in the cupboards.

It's surprising and strange and not at all what d'Artagnan expected from his daft friends, but he finds he can't complain. It feels nice to be worried over by his friends, and although he would have scorned anyone else's pity, in this case he does not feel like he's being patronized or mocked, the way he would if it were anyone else doing this for him. Instead, he feels...safe.

It's a nice feeling. Unusual, but nice.

All nice things have a price, however, and it isn't long before they settle down and stare at him expectantly as he drinks his tea (and he'll have to remember to teach Aramis how to make proper tea someday, the man is decent at it but being merely 'decent' is practically sacrilegious when it comes to the fine art that is making tea). They don't ask him for details, don't press him to reveal why he disappeared from their lives for almost a week, but it's clear from their half-concerned, half-stern gazes that they would appreciate an explanation.

He owes it to them.

So he drinks his tea and considers his words, and it isn't long before the tale slips from his lips. A tale of murder and love and pain and scars, all starting on a dreary, rainy, cold day in the middle of November, not quite autumn and not quite winter, when a man shot d'Artagnan's father and left him to bleed to death in the slush of mud and rain.

They are quiet as he talks, and are silent as he explains that he struggles, sometimes, when it's November. When it's dreary and rainy and cold, and the streets are filled with a slush of mud and rain. When all he can think about are the long line of mistakes he's made, starting at the death of his father and ending with his attempt at murdering Athos, nine months ago.

They still are silent when he stops talking, and he fiddles nervously with the handle of his (now-empty) mug as he avoids meeting their gazes. When they still fail to say a word, he finds himself making some self-disparaging quip about being pathetic, a thin, fake smile twisting his mouth into a shape that feels wrong to him.

That's when Porthos punches him. Not very hard, and it's a blow to the shoulder so it doesn't hurt terribly much, but still, he is surprised. He simply stares at Porthos for a moment, mouth slightly open, because really, how do you react to one of your best friends punching you?

When he finally finds his voice again and is able to ask for an explanation, Porthos is all too quick to provide one. He looks angry, like someone kicked a puppy in front of him, and this does not change as he firmly tells d'Artagnan that no, he is not pathetic, and yes, if he says something like that ever again, Porthos will not hesitate to punch him. Again.

He protests, of course, because he wouldn't be d'Artagnan if he didn't try to contradict absolutely everything. This time, it is Athos who speaks, a melancholy look in his eyes as he speaks of lost hopes and shattered dreams. He tells d'Artagnan that he mustn't isolate himself, that he must continue to live and live and live and not resort to hiding himself away (and d'Artagnan wonders where the faraway, haunted sorrow in the man's green-blue eyes came from all of a sudden, but it's not his place to ask, so he doesn't). He says that d'Artagnan has friends to aid him and that he doesn't need to struggle alone.

And Aramis, tactile, talkative Aramis, for once appears to be at a bit of a loss for words. He fusses with the blankets, makes d'Artagnan some more tea, places a hand on his arm in a gesture of sympathy and support, but says little. All he does is gently squeeze the ex-assassin's arm whenever he says something particularly self-deprecating, and stays silent, leaving Porthos and Athos to do the talking.

By the time the afternoon turns to evening, the evening to night, d'Artagnan feels a little bit better.

* * *

The next day, he goes to work (and by some miracle of god, he hasn't been fired).

The day after that is the same. And the day after that, and the day after _that,_ until finally the bleakness of mid-November passes by and he can breathe again, act like himself again.

(And of course he fears the next November, he always does, but somehow the fear is not so acute, so sharp as before.)

(It's a small change, but it's a start.)

* * *

 **A/N: Aaaaaaa I have no idea whether I hate this or not and it's confuuuusing aaaaaaaa**

 **Anyway...I've never been in Paris in November before, so any depictions of the weather may be inaccurate. If it is, we'll just call it 'artistic liberty' instead of 'clueless author,' m'kay?**

 **Au revoir.**


End file.
